Chapter Text
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.
- W. B. Yeats, The Stolen Child
"I. Said. No. "
There is a long, terrible pause.
And then: "Okay, Arthur." The words are quiet, something almost gentle around the edges of them.
Too late, the certainty hits Arthur squarely in the pit of the stomach that he has just made an irreversible mistake. He opens his mouth, and finds no sound will come out.
"Okay. If you really want to do it this way—if you think that will make you feel better about it—we'll do it this way."
"—hn going to be okay? Daddy? Are you okay?"
Arthur blinks, and the world reasserts itself as he surfaces out of whatever reverie he momentarily sank into. Faroe is watching him, wide-eyed and worried, from across the small high table at which they are currently sat.
For one confused instant Arthur freezes, certain that there is something terribly, terribly wrong with this picture. He was just—Faroe isn't—she was just—
"Welcome back to the Waylay, Mr. Lester. Here's your Blood & Sand." The glass clinks down on the table in front of him. The dark liquid inside glistens in the dim lights of the club, and Arthur stares at it, momentarily transfixed by the glimmering for a reason he does not understand. "And a root beer float for your little girl, of course." The waiter sets her glass down with a flourish and gives her a small bow; she giggles and grabs for the drink, her momentary worry for her father forgotten. The waiter turns back to Arthur. "If there's nothing else, I'll let your friend know you've arrived safe and sound, sir."
"What?" Arthur says, distracted. And then: "Oh yes. Good. Thank you." Everything's fine. There was something that didn't feel fine, for a moment there, but it was just a moment of deja vu, some lingering afterimage of a bad dream. He's brought Faroe out for a treat, because—because well, why shouldn't he? He's been terribly busy lately—at the—at the piano, yes, at his composition. His work, He hasn't had the time for her that he should. They haven't gone out to the park to see the ducks, or to check that there are no trolls under the bridge, in ages.
"Arthur! There you are. You finally made it!"
The friendly slap to Arthur's shoulder that accompanies the words is as sweetly and painfully familiar as the voice and its thick Boston accent. Parker grins at him, pulls the third chair out, and hops up to join them at the table. "God, it's good to see you again, Artie. And—" His grin fades as he turns to acknowledge Faroe, and for a fraction of second Arthur thinks he hesitates. "And it's... good to meet you at last, kiddo. I'm an old friend of your dad's."
There is a lump in Arthur's throat, and he doesn't know why. "Parker. You—you're here. You're—" alive, he almost says, and then he doesn't. Why is that the first thing that occurred to him to say? He shakes his head, bewildered. "You're looking well. I—I've missed you."
"Yeah," Parker says quietly. He is still looking at Faroe, who watches him over her root beer float with bold curiosity shining bright in her eyes. "Yeah, me too, Art. I've missed you too."
Something's not right here, and Arthur can't put his finger on it. "Parker, what's going on? Don't get me wrong, it's fantastic to see you, but—" What is he even trying to ask? Why are half his thoughts slipping out of focus like forgotten dreams when he looks for them? "Why are you here? Why were you waiting for us?"
Parker gives a small laugh and rubs the back of his neck sheepishly as he turns back to face Arthur. "And we're straight to the point. I... just wanted to make sure you got here safe, all right? You've had a rough go of it, and I... well." A shadow, unreadable to Arthur, crosses his face. "I was worried you might get lost."
"Lost?" Arthur echoes.
"Look." Parker holds up a hand, looking faintly uncomfortable. "It's... a long story, and we've got all the time in the world to catch up. I've booked you a room next to mine, and we're not on any schedule. What matters is you're here. Don't worry about the rest right now."
"Booked us a room? Parker, what on Earth...?"
"Daddy wouldn't get lost," Faroe proclaims proudly before Parker can answer. "I helped him find his way."
Arthur blinks—
Artie. Oh, Artie, he remembers a voice chiding, sing-song. She wants to help! You heard her. But if you want to tell your little girl no, well...
"Did you, now?" And Arthur's not imagining it: there is a note of caution beneath the indulgence in Parker's voice, and a forced edge to his broad smile, as he glances back to Faroe.
"Yes!" she says. "When we were in fairyland."
Parker's brows climb halfway up his forehead in exaggerated wonder. "Fairyland, you say! That's quite the adventure. How did you get there?"
"Well—" Faroe stares off into space for a moment, her brow furrowing as she considers this. "It was after I had my bath," she says slowly.
For an instant, the air leaves Arthur's lungs; the world goes gray; his heart stutters like it's about to give out. The instant passes, leaving him slightly dizzy but otherwise fine.
"And then—Daddy? How did we get to fairyland?"
Arthur laughs softly, brushing away—whatever just happened. Parker gives him a look of mock severity. "Artie, that's a very serious question from your daughter. I can't believe you'd laugh at it."
"No! No, of course not." Arthur clears his throat and puts on his most solemn face. "No. We got there by magic, darling." To Parker, he adds in an undertone: "We went to the park. To see the ducks."
"Ah."
"No, I didn't mean the park, Daddy." Faroe's exasperation is the very particular kind that only a precocious four-year-old can manage. "I meant fairyland. The real one."
"Oh, the real one." Parker gives him another expectant look, clearly enjoying himself now, even if the hint of tension is still there. "Come on, Lester, get it right. The kid's not buying this duck pond stuff. Parents, Faroe, am I right?"
Faroe giggles, and Arthur freezes, staring at her, because he knows that laugh, that's her laugh and she is—
—Across the table from him, fresh-faced and neat in the pretty white nightgown that Tess sewed for her, laughing delightedly at Parker.
Wait.
Nightgown? Why is she here in her nightgown? Is this a dream? Is he still—
(Still what? Curled in the dirt by the ashes of a spent fire, clinging desperately to the knowledge of stars he cannot see? Sleeping peacefully as tree roots crawl over him and pull him slowly down, and down, and down into the earth? Or drowning—oh god, drowning—Faroe is—
No, the voice whispers from inside his head, skin-crawlingly gentle now. Shh, it's okay. It's okay. She never felt a thing, Artie, not this time. See? I'm nothing if not merciful.)
"Daddy?"
Arthur's chair clatters backwards as he shoves it away and bolts around the table to his daughter. He swings her out of her own chair despite her startled cry, clutches her tight to his chest, buries his face in her hair. For an instant as he breathes in there is a sickening smell of iron, of blood, and he holds her tighter—but no, the damp warmth on his cheeks is his own tears, not—no.
His shoulders tremble as he hugs her.
She's fine. She's here. She's here.
He can see there's no blood.
She's fine.
Faroe lets out a frightened, hiccupping sob, and his own terror is drowned out by guilt. "Oh—no, no, shush, darling, it's okay, it's—" She never felt a thing, not this time. Suffocating, dark waters dragging him down—no. "It's all right. You're safe. I'm sorry, darling, I'm so sorry, I—I just had a bad dream. I didn't mean to scare you."
She sniffles and buries her face in his chest. Arthur lifts his head. Parker is watching him with a terrifying sadness in his eyes, and Arthur hastily averts his gaze, unable to meet the weight of that sadness head-on.
"Easy there, Arthur," Parker murmurs.
Arthur rubs automatic circles on Faroe's back, staring across the sea of chatting strangers and clinking glasses without really seeing any of them. "Parker," he whispers after a moment. "What's happening to me?"
Parker sighs. "You've been walking a dark road," he says, slowly and reluctantly. "Alone, for a long time. That takes its toll. Turns your head around until you can't find your way in from the cold, whichever way you try to go. But—listen to me. The things that dragged you down that road to begin with, they can't reach you here. You're safe now. It's over."
You're safe. There's an unbelievable relief that washes across Arthur at hearing those words, though he can't say where it comes from. And yet—at the same time—
Alone, for a long time.
That's... not right. It's not true. Is it?
His voice hoarse and uncertain, he asks: "What things?"
"What?"
"The things that dragged me down that road," Arthur says. "What things were those?"
"Arthur—"
"What things, Peter?"
Faroe lifts her head and gives him a worried look, and for her sake he forces an apologetic smile onto his face as he meets her eyes, but he can't just let this drop. Something's not right here. What Parker is telling him is... not exactly a lie, he doesn't think. It has the feeling of truth to it, even if he can't understand where that feeling is coming from. But there is something—
—And the two of you can try to stay friends, after!
—There is something missing.
He's forgetting something.
Parker's gaze flicks meaningfully to Faroe, then back to Arthur, and he gives a small, sharp shake of his head. Not in front of her, Arthur knows he means, but it's not as if Faroe can run off by herself to play while the grownups talk. Not here. (Not anywhere. He's not letting her go anywhere by herself.) "I swear to you," Parker says, "it doesn't matter now, all right? Whatever they were, this isn't a place for them. You can leave all that behind."
"Can I, though?" Arthur murmurs.
Parker gives him a troubled look. "You can. I promise you, Artie, you can."
"Don't call me that." The words are out, sharp and urgent, before he knows he's saying them. He doesn't know why, only that he suddenly, desperately does not want to be called that; it's like fingers digging into his chest. "Please."
The concern in Parker's eyes does not ease. "Okay." A heavy sigh. "Okay, Arthur. Look, just... just stay with me, okay? Come on." He pushes his chair back, stands. "Let's walk."
"Daddy?" Faroe whispers. "I think I had a bad dream too."
"I—" He hugs her tighter as he follows Parker. "It was just a dream, darling. It's okay. You're okay."
"There was a man," she mumbles, and presses her face against his shoulder. "He had red hands."
"It was just a dream," Arthur repeats, trying to sound calm. "You're okay."
"Hey, hey," Parker says with exaggerated cheer. "That just means you caught him red-handed, kiddo. You know what that means?"
She lifts her head and gives him a puzzled look for a moment before shaking her head, apparently distracted enough by this question to set the nightmare aside. "What's it mean?"
"Means you cracked the case!" He grins at her. "You caught the villain at his crime. And that means we, you and your dad and me, we all stopped him. Whatever bad thing he was doing, we stopped him, okay? We saved the day."
Slowly, Faroe nods, though her brow is still wrinkled like she's trying to figure something out. "We saved the day," she echoes, solemnly. "Daddy, is that what happened?"
Saved the day from what? Arthur is growing more certain with every second that ticks past that it is very much not what happened. There is a terrible, roiling dread seething in the pit of his stomach, slowly crawling upwards, and there is an echoing emptiness growing in his head and chest that is almost as awful, and neither of them makes any sense. He swallows hard. "Yes. Yes, of course that's what happened, darling. We saved the day."
He doesn't convince himself, but somehow she seems satisfied. She nods vigorously, then yawns and rests her head back against his shoulder once more, some of the tension easing out of her small body. Arthur gives Parker a grateful look, and mouths thank you.
Parker nods, with a smile that does not quite reach his eyes.
They weave their way through dining tables, past games of blackjack and poker, around the edge of a dance floor, then through a little door that opens, unexpectedly, into a large, glassed-in atrium. A cobbled path dimly lit by golden lamps winds between manicured beds of greenery and carefully cultivated trees. Above, through the glass, the sky is dark.
Arthur stops abruptly, overwhelmed with—what? There's so much green, he thinks, and the thought baffles him. Yes, he spends a lot of time in downtown Arkham, but it's not as if investigative work never takes him out to the countryside—and even in town, he takes Faroe to the park often enough. Wasn't he just telling Parker so? They go to see the ducks, at the little park near their house in—
—Boston.
Not Arkham.
Boston.
He looks down at Faroe, now drowsing against his shoulder, and then glances over sharply at Parker, and then down at Faroe again. Somewhere in the distance, hidden among the greenery, he can hear the trickling of fountains. The sound is like ice down his back.
She never felt a thing, Artie, not this time.
"Arthur," Parker says, quiet but urgent. "Arthur, stay with me. You're okay. Just breathe. You're okay."
And Parker's voice now melts and merges with Parker's voice in—another time. Arthur, you okay? Hey, just breathe, buddy, you're—
Something in Arthur's chest freezes into a single instant of terrible clarity, and shatters.
"Arthur—"
"Stay back," Arthur whispers, barely able to feel his mouth form the words. Everything is suddenly distant, and quiet, and numb. "I told you to stay back. I—he told me, and I told you, and you—"
"Arthur. Take a deep breath, and listen to me," Parker says. "None of that matters now. We're done with that."
"You died," Arthur whispers, for this moment past worrying over what Faroe might hear him say. "Jesus Christ, Parker, you fucking died. I remember. I—" The words stick in his throat, choking him. "I saw—"
"We're done with that, Arti—," Parker begins, quiet but firm, and then sighs and corrects himself: "Arthur. We're done. You, me—" For an instant a hair fracture opens in his voice, and he hesitates, but when he continues his tone is once more set and steady. "—The kid. Wasn't a good time for any of us, but we're through it, okay?" He reaches out, rests a hand on Arthur's shoulder, squeezes it tightly. "I know it's a lot to take in. But we're all of us through the bad part, and now we're here, and I promise, it's okay."
There is a bench not far ahead, set into a little alcove off the main path, and Arthur stumbles toward it on unsteady legs. Faroe stirs for a moment as he sets her down next to him, but then she nestles in sleepily at his side; he keeps one arm around her as gently as he can, desperate for her not to wake just now.
For a moment he just stares down at her, his mind empty, the hollow in his chest growing until it threatens to swallow him.
"—Can take your time," Parker is saying when Arthur remembers how to understand language. "Everybody here is—look, this is a place to stop for a while, until you—until we—head on to what's next."
"What's next," Arthur repeats, dazed. "Parker, I—I don't—understand. I'm not—" He stops abruptly, swallowing hard as he tries to make sense of his own thoughts. There is something missing. None of this makes sense. He vaguely remembers Parker's death, remembers—Did you order a book?—remembers a terrible voice. No, more than a voice, a presence, thundering through him: Tell your friend to stay back. TELL HIM.
Faroe wasn't there for any of that. Faroe was—Faroe was in Boston, with Tess and fairy tales and ducks in the park and—Faroe wasn't in Arkham. Faroe was never in Arkham.
She never felt a thing, Artie. Not this time.
"I don't remember," he says slowly, "how I died. I don't remember how—"
He keeps staring down at her, at the dim reflections of the lamplight shining on her chestnut-brown hair. His vision blurs. He wants to scoop her up into his arms and cling to her and never let her go for the rest of his li—the rest of his existence, however long that is.
And there is something deeply wrong with the fact that she is here, now, in this place, with him. This isn't—this isn't how it went. He knows this isn't how it went. Whatever has brought her here, now, this isn't—she was supposed to be—she was—
Buried under a too-small marble stone in Boston, next to her mother's larger one, both of them together beneath the earth as they never were upon it. And he—he did what he always did from his mistakes, his failures, his fuckups.
He turned and ran.
Not this time.
"She drowned," he whispers, the knowledge sinking into him like a stone into the depths of a pool. "I remember that. But that was years ago."
Parker sits down next to him on the bench. Arthur does not look up, a part of him certain that if he stops looking at Faroe she will vanish, like dewdrops off of grass in the morning.
"Yeah," Parker says. "It was."
Arthur dreads the answer, and he has to ask: "Why is she here now? With me?"
Parker's voice is heavy. "I don't know." Before Arthur can respond, he adds, "Maybe she was waiting for you, Arthur. Maybe she just wanted to be with her dad before she moved on. Maybe she needed to know you were okay, too."
That's not it. Arthur knows that's not it. He's pretty sure Parker knows it too. But slowly, jerkily, Arthur nods, feeling like he's trying to move his own head via puppet strings. Maybe Parker's right about the other things he's been saying—maybe it doesn't matter why she's here, or if Arthur actually is okay, or how any of them died, or why there's an aching hollow in his chest that feels like someone reached straight into him and tore one of his lungs out. Maybe all that matters is that he and Faroe are both here together, now, and he—he can't fuck this up the way that he did when she was alive.
What's going on with him doesn't matter. She's comfortable and happy and—and safe, if that word has any meaning after death, and he has to set everything else aside and protect that. He has to be what she needs him to be.
"Okay," he manages. It feels like he's gasping the word out, but it sounds—almost normal, to his ears. "Sure. Yeah. Okay, Parker."
He risks a half glance up at his partner, sees a compassion and sorrow in Parker's eyes that makes him want to break down weeping, and drops his gaze hastily back to Faroe, still asleep. She's still here. She's real. She's—safe.
As if she feels him looking at her, she stirs only a moment later, blinking and rubbing her eyes, and returns his gaze with groggy curiosity. He forces himself to smile at her; she beams back, then reaches a hand up to his neck, her expression fading into a puzzled frown. "Daddy, why's your neck look like that?"
He raises his own hand automatically and finds a rough knot of scar tissue under his fingertips. There is another dizzy moment, the sense of multiple times and places colliding into one. The hollow space in his chest grows a little larger. "I—"
He doesn't have an answer.
Parker steps in smoothly. "You know how you whenever you go over a bridge, you gotta be careful in case there's a troll under there?"
Might be trolls under the bridge, a voice hums in Arthur's memory, sly and knowing. You know how it is.
Faroe nods vigorously.
"Course you do, you're a smart kid. Well, smarter than your dad, as it turns out, because he was in a hurry on a case one day, and he wasn't quite careful enough—"
Parker continues rambling on, inventing some ridiculous tale that's got Faroe gasping and laughing within seconds, but Arthur can't focus on the details. Might be trolls under the bridge. It's the same voice that keeps slipping almost into focus, a key drifting near to the lock on some dreadful understanding, and then away again. (A key? Middle C, that's—no, not that kind of key.)
Stay close now, he can almost hear the voice saying, can almost feel his fists itching in response. I mean, the world is more full of weeping than you can understand, kiddo—but I promised your daddy you'd be safe for now, so no running off into fairyland, got it? Might be trolls under the bridge, you know how it is.
"Arthur," Parker says, his teasing tone jolting Arthur out of this nauseous reverie. "I said, what do we do whenever we go over a bridge, now...?"
"I know!" Faroe announces. "You have to knock on the rail of the bridge, and say—"
"—Are you there, troll?" Arthur joins in, smiling in spite of the unease echoing through the hollow at his core. "Yes, that was—that was very foolish of me to forget, wasn't it."
"Very," Parker confirms, solemnly. "Now—Faroe. I think your dad's starting to nod off over here. So what do you say we walk him back to the room so he can get some rest, huh? He's had a long, long day."
"I want to see the rest of the garden," Faroe protests, rubbing her eyes. Arthur opens his mouth to gently chide her—then sees in his mind the smooth marble headstone, much, much too small, the years engraved upon it much too close together. He shuts his mouth again and squeezes her shoulder lightly, and for the first time notices that there's something odd about the sensation in his left hand: a slight dull ache just above the knuckle of his little finger, and no feeling at all above it.
The realization sends his hand jerking away from her shoulder, almost of its own accord. He blinks in bafflement at the slender piece of twisted wood protruding from his hand where the little finger should be, and then shakes his head and makes the decision to ignore that one. A missing finger is scarcely the biggest worry he has right now.
"—Always tomorrow, okay, kiddo?" Parker is saying. "A new day, a fresh start, and you and your dad can explore the garden as long as you want."
"But I'm not tired now."
"All right, tell you what," Parker says, in the tones of one making a grand concession. "We'll flip a coin. Here—ah." He reaches into his pocket, and makes a face. "Well. A chip. A chip will work."
"What's a chip?" Faroe asks.
"It's like money," Parker says cheerfully, "except you can only use it to play games."
"What kinds of games?"
"Oh, all kinds of fun ones! Card games, dice games—"
"Games," Arthur says firmly, "about losing money. Parker, please don't try to corrupt my daughter."
Parker laughs. "Don't listen to your dad, sweetheart. Tell you what. After you finish exploring the gardens tomorrow, I'll teach you to play blackjack. Here—" He holds the chip out, winking at Arthur. "Something to start you out with."
"Oh, for—" Arthur snatches the chip, and his eyes make a decent attempt at rolling out of his head. "Peter Yang, if my daugher ever learns to play blackjack, I'd like it to be from someone who actually knows how to play, not someone who lost—how much was it at Edwin's?" He reaches into his pocket to tuck the chip away.
"Two large," Parker says, "but I never had to pay it back in the end, so who really lost there? That's the thing you've gotta remember, Arthur, it's all—Arthur? You listening?"
Arthur says nothing. His hand comes up from his pocket holding a coin, tarnished with age. Dried blood, nearly black, stains its surface. Beneath the stain is an unfamiliar script. He turns it over in his hands, once more feeling dizzy as the echoes come back to him.
You want him back. The voice, that same voice that's been taunting him this whole time, teasing and sly and delighted.
I want him safe. Himself, shaky and desperate, near tears. He remembers terrible pain in his throat, and in his leg, and a bone-deep killing cold worse than the pain, and a silence—a solitude—worse than the pain and the cold put together.
You want him back, the voice repeats, but there's a chiding note to it now that says he's fooling no one but himself.
"Arthur?"
Arthur breathes: "Where is he?"
"What?"
"The—my—I—" A jumble of responses fight to be the first off his tongue, and none of them make sense. My eyes. My conscience. My hand. Half my heart, I think.
My—
"My friend," he hears himself whisper. "Where is he?"
He meets Parker's eyes for an instant, sees something there he cannot bear to look at, and looks sharply away. "You said I was alone on that dark path. You said I was all alone. But that—wasn't true. There was—there was someone else with me."
"That wasn't your friend, Arthur."
"He was. He was—"
"Arthur," Parker says. "Listen to me. The thing you're remembering—"
Next to him, Faroe shifts uneasily. "Daddy?"
"He wasn't a thing. Don't call him that. He was—"
"I'll call him what he was," Parker snaps. "If you're gonna start remembering, remember this: the thing you're calling a friend now is the one that dragged you down that path to begin with, Arthur. He's the reason you're here now. He's the reason any of this is happening."
"It wasn't—it's not like that." Arthur can't remember what it is like, but what Parker's saying isn't—it isn't right. That isn't how it went.
"No?" Parker draws a deep breath, and squares his shoulders and his jaw. "Okay. Then explain to me why I'm here, Arthur. Because that thing you're remembering, that thing you're calling a friend? He killed me."
Arthur opens his mouth and closes it again and stares at Parker, his mind a blank.
"Daddy?" Faroe tugs urgently at his coat, her voice anxious. "Is John okay?"